A blog mostly focused on poetry. I am not sure I understand anything else.

Monday, September 7, 2009

The Damage

Most of the morning this Labor Day I have spent laboring over revisions to Part II of my poem, "Takaaki." I also had coffee at Expresso 77. And I took a shower. And put some laundry away. And looked at some dejected dishes in the sink. If my life were any more exciting it would probably have to be televised. Fortunately, for us, it is not.

Now, while I am not 100% certain that this section is done, I believe those things which remain to be revised are more technical, perhaps ethical problems, than matters involving the story. I don't think I will be inserting any more stanzas. But I can't be sure. Little moths of doubt may find their way into my mind and start nibbling holes in my certainty. I once tried sticking mothballs in my ears to ward them off, but everybody told me I smelled like a crazy old lady from one of Yeats's poems, so I discontinued the practice.

Still, I am going to go out a limb and call this section complete for now. And I am going to go swimming in the city.

...

For those fanatics interested in reading further, I have included today's work below. It commences with the final stanza of Part I, and then proceeds into Part II.

PLEASE NOTE: While I do not endorse any of the actions taken by the persons depicted, I have tried throughout the poem to render each historical decision and possible motivation in context. No animals were harmed in this production (except for the chicken). And I have always tried to treat the actors involved as humanely as possible. Not always successfully.

*Zip* that leopard softly disappearsAround the tan-line of Takaaki’s hips.My eyes could spend the next ten thousand yearsJust bouncing on his hips. But then my lips,Neglected and forlorn, might turn to dustBefore I could express my love. Or lust.I must not allow a sleazy rhymeTo swallow his humanity. It's timeTo treat the true Takaaki—the sweet faceI’ll sit across from in a steaming bathBelow Mt. Fuji—how he politely laughs,How his eyes disappear, when I placeMy feet in the hot water and I ask,“Do you prefer my poems, or pale ass?”

Part II

Becoming human takes a bit of time.Nobody knows exactly how we do it.We classify the clock as the enzyme—The universal catalyst. Through itWe cease to be that seemingly divineLump of life we call “a child.” That is fine.We can cope with grown-ups pretty well.What gives geneticists heartburn from Hell,However, are the differing resultsWe get: when something evil, after school,Shows up with smoky goggles at the poolWe cease to be responsible adults.“Perhaps he’ll drown,” we hope. Hope seldom helps.Evil makes History like Michael Phelps.

The cruel careers of our worst instincts areOlympic in brutality, but short—If measured by the life of stone, or star.Were we less human, we might not resortTo Good or Evil. They’d be words—like stonesAnd stars. The sea would not be free of bones,But bones would be more beautiful, like sand,Twinkling between alien toes, stand-Ing on Coney Island, watching the Cyclone—The roller coaster—going up and down.The salty waves would still drift in, surroundSmall feet. Bad children would be taken home.The sea would sparkle—conscience cold and clear.Only you and I would disappear.

Some distance back time in this scene is set,Upon a different island—half concreteHalf steel, accessed by elevators. LetThe windows start in Brooklyn, stretch to meetThe Empire State behind a candle (whereI sit swiveling in a leather chair),While your eye continues travelingAlong gray glass, skyscrapers unraveling,Until the pointy tip of the Chrysler Buil--ding gently lifts Lexington Avenue,Piercing a silver nitrate mist. Now youMust let this scintillating picture fillThe space before your eyes: that is New York.Here, I transfix a carrot with a fork.

“I’ll never tire of this view,” I say,While blowing on my steaming vegetable,Adding, “Totemo oishikatta ne,”Hoping that I finally am ableTo tell Takaaki I enjoy his curryWithout entangling my tongue in worry.“It’s okay,” he shrugs, quietly deferringMy compliments—as usual preferringA tilted head, a seated bow, the leanerShow of manners honored in Japan,Which can seem strange to an AmericanInclined to linger too much over dinner,Allowing food to cool and candles run.Before I’d started, Takaaki was done—

Except for these two mushrooms whichWere pushed off to one side, not even tried—Two shitakes, which he didn’t wishTo eat. Or share. They looked okay. I’dEat them. From a Doraemon candy tinTakaaki took a cigarette. A thinWisp of smoke and hiss rose from his plate,To celebrate our ninety-seventh date.“What do you want to do, tonight,” I fired,“Go bowling? I’ll do anything you like:Get drunk? Get naked?” [Silence.] “Steal a bike?”“I swam forty laps tonight. I’m wired.”He exhaled, emitting a dry laugh,“Shall we play Scrabble then and then have bath?”

The carrot on my fork released a dropOf curry—with a thick and oily splash.The precise second my utensil stoppedI discerned, across the table, a flash—Something which I hadn’t seen before—Metallic—worth investigating?—orMaybe not: a passenger aircraftHovering above New Jersey, as it passedBehind Takaaki’s silhouette, gliding inTo Kennedy, LaGuardia, Newark—Nothing I need necessarily report.A Zero: nothing nasty hiding inThose pink puffs of lead behind his head—Those distant thunderclouds, I should have said.

“Have bath sounds good. But Scrabble, I will pass:You always win, you creep. You clearly cheat,”I said, “It’s obvious. You won the lastNine times. And you’re not going to defeatMe for time number ten tonight.” I putMy foot down firmly. There. Takaaki’s buttHe then extinguished in the drop of sauceWhich recently had claimed his match. “You lostBecause you play without strategy:There is no need for me to cheat,” he sighed,As if I were an insect on his thighToo insignificant to crush. “You see,You always want to find interesting word—Not the word that wins.” My mouth conferred

A moment with a chunk of chicken dyedCadmium by turmeric—the curry—Before I swallowed. “I have always triedTo think of Scrabble with you as purelyEducational. It is my wishTo help you in enlarging your EnglishVocabulary. And defeating you—Too easily—as surely I must do—Would only be embarrassing. I knowHow sensitive to that Nihon-jin are:Destruction on a Scrabble board would marOur beautiful relationship.” “Honto?It sounds like Maru-chan’s afraid to play.”“Well, if you want to play with words, okay.”

(Maru-chan, or “Little Maru” isThe new diminutive by which I’m knownIn Japanese. I really don’t existIn English anymore—except at home.Maru works best as a marine suffix,A damaged freighter out of Altair Six—The bane of all Starfleet cadets, but one—Who counts impossible rescues amongHis greatest triumphs. Though Kirk’s victoryPales before my own: I am the firstTo work the Kobayashi into verse—In a surprising twist of History.Present me a no-win scenario,I read the rules. Then change the game. Let’s go:

The Kobayashi Maru is a testOf character. You’re not supposed to win.It’s chess. There is no vessel in distress,Hull breached, an icy vaccum pouring in;The ship’s a simulation, and you loseWhatever course of action you should choose.The Kobayashi test presumes that deathIs built into your programming—like breath-Ing—it is part of human DNA.Live long and prosper? No, cadet, goodbye.Don’t bother asking for a reason why:Here logic has the final, fatal say.I wonder if that Vulcan—over there—Knows love is logic’s great nightmare.)

Takaaki tapped a second cigaretteOn Dora-chan’s bountiful blue tin;I went on eating, watching the sun setLike some enormous, obvious omen.A famished hush descended on the table,Until a tulip petal quite incapableOf hanging on landed on my placematSoftly. Five whole minutes passed like that—So painfully they felt more like twenty.I drew bananas in my curry sauceWhile Taka-chan established who was boss.Then he offered, “More?” “No, I’ve had plenty,Thanks.” I roll the tulip petal fromThe mat between forefinger and thumb

Contemplatively as Takaaki takesDishes to the kitchen. In florescent glass—Bisected cleanly by the Empire State—I watch Takaaki work—efficient asA machine—feeding things to TupperwareContainers, fridge, and freezer—awareI should be helping to put things away.I am lazy—what else can I say?When I see him stationed at the sinkI swallow the pale dregs of my iced-tea,Then saunter to the bathroom for a pee,Leaving the door open while I tink-Le, shouting over my Niagara, “YouForgot to flush.” I lied. I sometimes do.

Before we get to Scrabble we must firstPrepare our space for battle. Clean dishesRest in a rack, while bubbles rise and burstAround Takaaki as he calmly swishesCutlery though the hot suds. Each plateI plan to dry I first inspect. I scrapeA shred of gray organic matter looseFrom the light, lilac pattern. I peruseBoth back and front, then add it to the stackOf china in the cabinet above—Enraging him with all my heart, my love.This underhanded method of attackEarns my palm a pair of scalding forksFalling from the sky with deadly force.

“God damn it! What is wrong with you?”I thundered to a non-existent jury,“You stab me with steel forks out of the blue—I promise to play Scrabble and—” And fury,Rage crystallizing in Takaaki’s eye,“I know when you’re mocking me.” I tryNot to reply—permit my mask to slip—Given how I’ve destabilized his lip:It quivers like red jello, in a mold,Before the gelatin’s had time to setSufficiently. Our glances briefly metWhile calculating how long we could holdSome fresh insanity from breaking out.He placed his boiled hands beneath the spout

Allowing a cascade of cold to run,So his corpuscles had a chance to cool.But were they? Something horrid had begunWith Scrabble at sunset. A kind of duel:A test of tempers turning letters—tiles—Into finely calibrated dials.I listened for that hard, peculiar pingOf steel, submerged within my sonar ring:The sound of flesh, not schools of frightened fish,Darting down into the icy depths.I sensed his anger, out there, sliding West,Enveloped in the velvet dark. I wishHe hadn’t tried to lecture me beforeAbout my Scrabble game. Now, I abhor

Violence, like any veteranWho knows what horrors in his heart may lurk.But I’m American, and human, and,Against a submarine, depth-charges workWell—like words—if you deploy them right.But using double-meanings in a fightIs regulated largely by extentOf your technology. IntelligentTacticians will grade every syllableCarefully, according to its power,Testing new artillery in the shower,Walking, waking, working—if capable—Gathering the forces to make love.Love is where things get a little rough.

Love is not a game like Scrabble, is it?It’s more like dominoes. With rubble. WarMay be our best analogy. I pick itBecause war has no ceiling, here, no floor:I make love without limits. Not the sky,The stars, the earth, the sea. I’ll tell you why:The language I command is so advancedIt now permits me to transform romanceInto a weapon. Look how I revokeEach kiss, caress, all pretense of pity:Watch me turn your face into a city,Then blow your eyes to atoms—balls of smoke.I can fly from love to NagasakiIn less than sixty seconds. Takaaki

Slowly shut the water off. He driedHis swollen fingertips on a fresh towelWith “Thankgiving” printed on one side,A turkey, goose—some kind of cooked, brown fowl—Emblazoned on the other. He withdrewAnother cigarette. (There were just two,I noticed, left inside Doraemon.)“Are we still playing games or are we done?”I asked. I left when he told me to go—Which is not to say that I objected:I understood. I should have expectedThis. Nagasaki went too far. To showHow bad I felt, I called him to surrender,Unconditionally, the 7th of December.